


What I Want

by someforeignband



Series: tryhard [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Coming of Age, John Lennon Being an Asshole, John needs to learn how to communicate, John should learn to be nice, M/M, Paul McCartney is trying his best, Paul has big dreams, Paul is a sweet baby angel, Soft Boys, Teen Angst, Teenage Dorks, i wrote this instead of doing homework, its 1958, just trying to make it through in this world, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22873393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someforeignband/pseuds/someforeignband
Summary: It's 1958, and Paul doesn't want to be in The Quarrymen anymore.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: tryhard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644223
Comments: 10
Kudos: 64





	What I Want

**Author's Note:**

> hi ! hope you enjoy these lil one shots based on songs from the band CAMINO's tryhard EP !!! this one is gonna be a manageable length :) I hope u enjoy it ! just taking a break to cleanse my metaphorical palette, but an update for dearest 1995 will happen SOON

The sound of the glass hitting the pavement was audible against the stark silence that settled between them. It wasn’t surprising really, the way that he smashed the glass of the coke bottle against the concrete, an overhand toss into the street, the glass shattering against the dense asphalt, breaking into a thousand little pieces on impact. It wasn’t surprising the way that Paul took a drink from his coke, tipping the bottle back as he touched it between his lips, paying no mind to the way that some tiny pieces of glass skittered towards where he sat cross-legged on the drive. 

“Mimi’s going to make you clean that up,” Paul murmured, kicking a larger chunk of glass back into the road with the heel of his shoe, looking up at where John stood on the grass. Rather than listening, John bent down, picking up the discarded bottle cap that was resting against Paul's right shoe. Quickly, he tossed the cap into the air, before catching again, then turning and launching the small, red piece of metal at a nearby tree. It hit the trunk of the tree with a tinny “clink” before falling somewhere into the grass of the neighbor’s lawn. John shrugs, kicking some smaller glass shards with the side of a boot-clad foot. 

Paul sighs, looking at the Coca-Cola bottle in his hand, the liquid inside quickly going flat with the amount of time that he’d been sitting on the edge of John’s drive. John always criticized him for the amount of time he took to do things, actions always planned out in advance and executed  _ perfectly,  _ no matter how long it took.  _ Slow.  _ Paul blinks up at John, watching him fiddle with the nails.  _ Could he ever quit moving?  _ As if peeling back the thin skin around his nails wasn’t enough, his right leg bounced with some sort of anticipation of  _ something _ that Paul didn’t understand.

Paul was always pensive, calculated,  _ slow,  _ in comparison to his counterpart, who always found the ability to be impeccably shallow, irrational, and  _ quick.  _ Paul was a perfectionist, driven by quiet passion that burned heavy in his chest, a bright beacon that blinked constantly at his companion. John was a risk-taker, creativity coming in blinding, violent bursts, ripping up the seams of anything perfect, his projects rippling with genius incompletion.

“Are you done?” John huffs, sticking the edge of his right ring finger in his mouth, having picked too much of his cuticle away, the metallic taste of blood bouncing against the tip of his tongue. He watched Paul raise the bottle to his lips, drinking the last few ounces of coke left in the bottom of the glass. He sets the bottle back against the edge of the driveway, looking up at John before repeating the same line he’d said earlier. 

“Mimi’s going to make you clean that up.” Except this time, there’s a little bit of heat behind his words as he reaches out to pick up his own bottle cap and glass, standing up from the spot he’d been occupying for the last 20 minutes or so that they’d been sitting at the end of the drive of 251 Menlove Avenue. He brushes his free hand against the front of his drain-pipe trousers, obviously unbothered by the impatience of his partner, almost used to it like a mother dealing with a petulant child.

John removes his finger from his mouth, wiping it against the front of his equally tight pants, glancing at Paul. “She won’t,” He argues flatly, once again going back to work at biting his nails again, a fairly new habit, but a constant one nonetheless. 

Paul says nothing, looking through John, over his shoulder, the sun setting in the distance, the faint presence of the stars becoming clear across the pink, early August sky. He blinks his cartoonishly large eyes, straining them, battling against the bright orange ball of sun that sinks slowly below the treeline. John watches him carefully.  _ Could he ever stop thinking?  _ They were so different, but fitting together in a way that felt like more than a simple friendship, the way that they worked together so easily, their connection almost breaching something deeper, definitely something more than a  _ friendship,  _ something nearly  _ cosmic.  _

“Hey,” John prods gently at Paul’s shoulder, snapping his eyes away from the sun, causing him to blink rapidly, clearing away the dark spots clouding his vision from staring at the sun. “You’ll go blind like me if you keep doing that,” John gibes, playfully, trying to break the weird tension between the two of them. It had been there all night, the whole thing much too strained, in comparison to what normally went on between them.

They’d been bickering, and it seemed that John had taken it too far, pushing Paul to a limit that he hadn’t realized was there. John’s acerbic tone never getting under Paul’s skin the way it did that night, making Paul feel so incredibly insignificant. He’d come to recognize the fact that it was John’s world and he was merely living inside of it, a planet in the John-centric orbit, a pawn. 

John didn’t seem to see it the way Paul did, appreciating the way that Paul always had the mildness to absorb the astringent nature of everything that John did. He was a poor communicator and it wasn’t until he watched Paul drop everything, his guitar included, and storm from the house, that he realized that he’d taken things too far. They were joking around like usual, just horsing around, but suddenly Paul was reduced to a blotchy red face and gentle tears rolling down his cheeks. And then he was gone, leaving everything laid out on John's bedroom floor. 

He hadn’t heard from Paul in three days, the guitar, notebook, and pencils laying in the spot that he had left them, messily strewn about John’s floor. He was almost getting worried that Paul might not come back at all, but it was just after supper when Mimi told him that, “His little friend was here to get something he left.”

And obviously, rather than letting Paul have his space, letting him decompress and just  _ breathe _ for once in his goddamn life, John invited him to have a soda on the edge of the driveway. And now they were here: staring at each other with an invisible wall between them.

Paul was hurting and for once, John wasn’t oblivious to it. There was a vociferous silence around them and for once, John was speaking, desperate to fill it. Paul’s actions were pushing the boundaries that John was so used to, making it finally clear that something was  _ wrong,  _ and for once, he recognized that. 

It wasn’t often that their age gap seemed to make itself known, but in this moment, Paul couldn’t have looked any more sixteen, and John couldn’t have felt any more on the edge of eighteen. The way that they argued shouldn’t have felt like a battle of power, shouldn’t have felt like a domestic dispute. But, the way that they stood felt like a standoff, and for once, John was out of things to say.

It was the soft features and the sharp silence that sent John’s head reeling, feeling so off the deep end he didn’t even know where to start, an apology so incredibly out of his range of abilities. He remembered what they were fighting about, remembered the way Paul’s mood had soured with the mention of the way he and George acted. The way John had jokingly said that George couldn’t stay in the band if they’d be, “all over each other like two fags.” It had hit some kind of nerve, obviously, with the way Paul had gone silent after that, his mouth in a tight line, his full lips trembling just slightly.

He hadn’t meant it mean, he hadn’t meant anything by it. But, the words sent something ice-cold washing over his skin, a lightness rushing to his head, only getting worse when John  _ wouldn’t stop.  _ He’d bitten his lip, dropped his pencil, and looked down, trying to ignore the churning in his stomach and the shakiness of his bones, knowing that John didn’t remember, he couldn’t have. 

Paul was upset even though John didn’t remember, well maybe, it was  _ because  _ John didn’t remember the night that he’d stumbled to 20 Forthlin Road absolutely sloshed out of his mind. Maybe it was the fact that no matter the situation, John  _ used  _ Paul: used him for his singing in the band, used him to get girls to come to their shows, used him as a songwriter, used him as a  _ pawn, used him.  _ It wasn’t like he’d minded the way John’s hot mouth had slid against his own, the sour taste of whiskey on the tip of John’s tongue. The whole situation feeling incredibly  _ ugly,  _ the heat of John’s hands against against the front of Paul’s trousers, the heat of John’s tongue, the heat of John’s gaze, the heat of his words after he’d realized what he’d done, so blacked out that he’d seemingly forgotten the way he’d spoken. 

Seemingly, so much so that John had ceased to remember the events of that night at all, leaving nothing but spouting hatred about  _ queers _ and leaving Paul feeling so utterly gutted. Because he wouldn’t say it out loud, but  _ he’d liked it.  _ He’d liked it and John didn’t remember any of it, especially not the part towards the end where he’d pushed Paul back into his room, telling him that if he told anyone about any of it that he’d be a “dead man”. 

And maybe that was the worst part, the way that he stared at the sinking sun, the way he knew that if he looked away from the sun he’d find himself looking back at John, falling back into this game: playing the part of pawn exceedingly well as time went on. But he couldn’t let it keep going like this, he wasn’t looking for an apology like usual, he was looking for John to  _ change.  _ Because Paul’s ego told him that he’d be successful without the bastard, but the way that his heart thrummed in his chest told him that he  _ needed  _ John like a fish needs water. But he wouldn’t let that fact encroach on the fact that he needed something to change, Paul was all for second chances, but not like this. 

“I don’t think I want to play in the band anymore,” Paul says softly, shoving his hand deeper into the front pocket of his trousers, afraid to look up at John. 

“What- Macca what the fuck do you mean you don’t wanna be in the band anymore?” John spits, the sun behind him fully dipping behind the trees, leaving the street dimly lit as dusk finally fell. 

“I’m not- I don’t want to play in the band anymore,” Paul repeats again, his voice stronger this time, determined to not let it tremble in the moment. 

“What… is this about what I said on Tuesday, Paul I didn’t mean to make you cry-” John starts, his tone startlingly flat for someone who should be making an apology. 

“No, you did.” Paul responds, cutting John off mid-sentence. “And, if-if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go get my things,” He finishes, turning to head back towards the front door of John’s house. 

“Macca!” John calls out, annoyance present in his tone, he couldn’t wrap his mind around why Paul was acting the way he was, and if he was going to act this way, maybe it was better he left the band anyway. 

“What- What do you want? What can we do to make you stay?” John furthers, desperately, knowing he’d have no chance without Paul. Stu couldn’t really play the bass, he wasn’t that great of a singer or songwriter, Pete was a shit drummer, and if Paul left, then so would George. The band would fall apart. Everything would fall apart. 

“What  _ I _ want...?” Paul asks, almost as if his ears had perked up at the mention of the idea of him holding his own. He turned fully back toward John, the stupid, empty Coca-Cola bottle still hanging out of his right hand. “I want… I want us to be  _ famous,  _ Lenny. I want to get the  _ fuck _ out of Liverpool,” He breathes, the pink sky steadily darkening to a nice lilac, the dark blue of night seeping into the rose, stars becoming more and more present with every passing moment. 

“Don’t you think I want that, too?” John snorts, rolling his eyes at the statement, the entirety of this moment seemingly trivial to John, the scary thought of losing Paul already having left his mind.

“But, John, we can’t do that if you keep treating me like utter shite!” Paul cries, the toe of his shoe scuffing along the seam of the sidewalk, trying to focus on anything but looking up at John. 

“What the  _ hell do you mean?  _ Is this all about  _ Tuesday?  _ If it is, Macca, I already said I was sorry, what more are you asking for?” John sputters, throwing his hands up, looking up at the sky, the stars getting brighter by the second. 

“I’m asking for you to mean it, John! Cause honestly, it isn’t worth it anymore, not with the way you want things to be-” Paul groans, his grip around the neck of the bottle tightening, his knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip. “I can’t keep playing this game, letting you take credit for everything! You can be frontman all you want, but this is a  _ partnership,  _ whether you want it to be or not. You know it is.” Paul finishes, his tone deadly serious, the entire energy around the pair changing.

“I never said it wasn't,” John sneers, taking a step closer to Paul.

“Doesn’t mean shit, ‘cause it sure doesn’t feel like one. McCartney-Lennon or nothing,” Paul demands, his grip still tightening around the neck of the bottle, the glass nearly warping under his grip. 

“Lennon-McCartney.” John insists, his tone as serious as a heart attack. 

“ _ Christ almighty! You’re fucking ridiculous,”  _ Paul exclaims angrilly, the neck of the bottle finally breaking in his grip, the rest of glass hitting the ground, not shattering, but breaking into a few sizable chunks. The pair both jump backward, the noise of it all startling them, the intensity of the situation almost palpable, and it had just reached a fever pitch. 

Paul didn’t realize that his hand was bleeding until he went to pick up the pieces of glass from the pavement, and a drop of his blood hit the concrete. “Shit,” John whispers, rushing forward to pick up the chunks of glass for Paul. “Hey don’t worry, let’s just get you bandaged up,” He says, his voice barely above a whisper. “We can fight when you’re not bleeding,” he chuckles, helping Paul to his feet. 

The standoff didn’t end, it was just interrupted, and the pair found themselves sitting in the midst of a suffocating silence in the middle of Mimi Smith’s small kitchen. Paul sat in a chair, gripping a washcloth full of ice cubes, and John stood against the stove, his eyes not leaving Paul. They hadn’t spoken. 

“Do you even remember that night?” Paul eventually asks after staring at his hand, the blood from his cut seeping into the towel. 

“Which night?” John chuckles, crossing his feet, one in front of the other. “There have been a lot of nights in my life, I’m not sure how you expect me to remember-” 

“God you are fucking insufferable!” Paul sighs, squeezing his hand against the small towel, wincing slightly with the pain that shoots through his hand. 

“I’m sorry I just don’t remember-” John throws his hands up, getting steadily more defensive. 

“Of course you don’t, it figures. You were bloody pissed to hell,” Paul scorns before continuing, “You could barely stand, probably would’ve caught fire if I held a lighter to you. God bless.” Paul whispers, his voice choked up. 

“You showed up to mine, were stuttering about how you loved how I played the guitar, even if I did it wrong, told me how much you appreciated me. You were stumbling over your words, could barely string a sentence together, but you were singing my praises,” Paul explains, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. He looks down at his pants, frowning at the spots of blood from his hand that were probably going to stain them. There was no way that his father would be able to get the blood out. 

“And then you told me that we were gonna be famous! John you promised me that we’d make it big and that we’d leave this town, and- and you said that even if you didn’t… you said that even if  _ we  _ didn’t make it big, that  _ I _ would make it big someday. And then you-” Paul stops suddenly, grip tightening against the makeshift ice pack again, not wanting to talk about the next part, not wanting to say it  _ out loud.  _

“And then I kissed you,” John finishes for him, still looking at Paul sitting in that damn chair, their eyes meeting for the first time since they’d entered the small kitchen. 

“More like attacked me with your mouth,” Paul snorts, a sad smile spreading across his face. 

“Yeah,” John breathes, nodding in agreement, his gaze falling away from Paul’s, finding a spot on the wall to gaze at. 

“Yeah,” Paul repeats softly, looking back down at his hand, the blood from his hand looking all the more red against the stark cream color of the washcloth. 

They sit in silence for a while, a weight seemingly lifted off of Paul’s chest.  _ He had remembered.  _ Something lingered in the air, but it was hard to put a finger right on what exactly was buzzing in the air. John wanted to speak, wanted to possibly punch a wall, do  _ something,  _ rather than just sit there in contemplative silence. He supposed the ball was in Paul’s corner now, this whole sitting and being introspective thing catering more to what Paul often found himself doing. John feared saying something stupid, so instead of saying something at all, he merely began picking at his cuticles again, averting his gaze away from Paul, hoping that Paul would say  _ something.  _

_ Anything. _

“Why’d you do it then?” Paul eventually says. 

Okay, John wants to take back his previous thought, that was the one question he’d hoped that Paul would avoid. 

“You sure talk a good game, calling George and I queers all the time, but you-” Paul begins, the eventually looks down at his hand again, still gripping the towel. 

John shrugs and seems to be out of words once again, Paul had a funny way of making his tongue feel much too heavy in his mouth. “What do you want me to say, Paul? That- you want me to say that I’m scared? Is that what you fucking want?” John asks, running a hand through his hair. 

“I mean, maybe! I don't know!” Paul exclaims, wincing as he moves his hands wildly, almost as if he forgot one of them was split open just for the moment. “I- John if all of this is gonna work, we have to be honest with each other! We’re in a band now, if we want to make it big we have to… be real. That’s where the best songwriting comes from!” He nearly shouts, struggling to reason with the other boy standing just across the kitchen. 

“You know that I- John I care about you, as your friend, and I want to be a part of your life but when you get out of control… and you take credit for the work that  _ I  _ do, and only tell me you care about me when you’re plastered… I hope you can understand how frustrating that can be!” Paul explains, his voice trailing to a hushed whisper as his voice becomes choked with emotion. 

“Hey, I-” John starts, rubbing a flustered hand over his brow, trying to figure out how exactly to calm his thoughts down into words that made sense, his brain moving a mile a minute. This was Paul’s job, voicing the things he was feeling eloquently, not his. He used his emotions as a weapon to paint a bloody picture, not as a tool to make a mural. This wasn’t his game. 

“I want you to stay, Macca. You’re the best musician I know,” He whispers, looking directly into Paul’s eyes. “I want this to work… I want  _ us  _ to work.” John trails off, still stuck on Paul’s eyes. They looked extra green in the dim lighting of the early evening, the long eyelashes around them casting shadows on the rest of Paul’s face. 

“Us?” Paul asks, tilting his head to the side, adjusting the way he was sitting on the cheap chair pushed against the wall. 

“Yeah,” John affirms, quietly, looking at Paul once again, Paul’s pretty doe-eyes blinking back at him in confusion.

“What- what is  _ us,  _ John? Did that kiss even mean anything… did what you said even mean anything?” Paul sputters quietly, head reeling in confusion. 

“Of course it meant something! I just- you know how I get when I can’t bring the thoughts from my brain down and put them into words. I-I’m not good at that like you are.” John confesses, sheepishly, shoving his hands deep into the front pockets of his trousers. 

“I- thanks?” Paul laughs, tilting his head to the side slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So… what- what is this, John. What are  _ we?”  _ Paul asks, trying to keep the tone casual. 

John thinks for a moment, looking through the doorway of the kitchen into the sitting room, out the window and into the street. Remnants of the two broken coke bottles glittering underneath the amber light of the street lamps. “McCartney-Lennon,” He says finally, throwing Paul a bright smile. 

Paul grins back, laughing to himself before finally saying, “I think Lennon-McCartney has a nice ring to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed ! come hang out w me on tumblr @ some-foreign-band


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